


Breathe

by TimeBeforeSpring



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Future Fic, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Merlin-centric, Old Merlin - Freeform, Post-Canon, but also kind of hopeful, this is sad i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 13:13:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimeBeforeSpring/pseuds/TimeBeforeSpring
Summary: Merlin sits, breathes and remembers.





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Just a reflective little character study, set on a quiet, snowy night. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin BBC, nor do I own the character of Merlin. I claim no profits from writing this.

He doesn’t get out much these days. The cold makes his bones ache, and as much as he would like to defy his own body, wrap himself up like a mummy and brave the elements, trudge down to the post office to pick up some writing paper and a tube of Fruit Pastilles, what he really wants is to curl up by the fire like a child and have a good long nap.

  Wishful thinking, of course. He doesn’t really sleep much anymore. Hasn’t in a good few decades. Gaius would tell him it was his old brain beginning to creak to a halt, bowing beneath the stress and strain of the long life with which it has been gifted (or cursed).

  Or perhaps Gaius would say nothing much at all. He had never been one to grumble about the trials and tribulations of old age. Merlin remembers the precise way in which his old friend’s face would twist whenever he moved the wrong way, whenever the stiffness in his joints became too much. But he would never complain, simply mumbling an apology in Merlin’s direction and bundling himself away to bed, face grey and lips pressed into a hard, thin line. Merlin would bring him medicines of turmeric and ginger, sometimes even a little apple cider, anything that would help ease the old man’s pain, but it was a rare occurrence that he would ever take it. Towards the end, Merlin had resorted to muttering minor healing spells under his breath, unable to bear the sight of his oldest living friend in such distress. Gaius never commented on it, and Merlin half-hopes that he never noticed, although deep down, he knows that that’s impossible.

  Anyway, that was a long time ago, and one thing Merlin knows for sure is that Gaius would disapprove of his dwelling on the past. Always had, right from the very beginning, when Merlin had first shuffled his way into his quarters as a gangly youth, wide-eyed and innocent of the life for which he was destined.

  The fire pops once, a log caving in on itself in a flurry of sparks, sharp against the muted crimson of the molten embers beneath. He gazes, eyes unfocused, blurred-out faces and scenes softened by time playing out behind his lids. He watches them flicker and dance among the flames, as mercurial and ephemeral as smoke, dissipating into thin air as quickly as they appeared.

  There’s something about winter nights that allows Merlin to breathe somewhat. He’s never been much of a summer boy, even back when the arrival of winter signalled the start of humanity’s long, hard struggle for survival, with food becoming even scarcer and a deep, mind-numbing cold permeating every nook and cranny of the castle. Long, dark nights and meagre candleflames wavering in the gloom to counteract the encroaching blackness. And yet, Merlin has always loved the dark. Darkness provides a blanket, an intangible barrier between himself and the outside world, and back in Camelot, an intangible barrier was better than no barrier at all. Night-time was time for study, for sitting hunched over a single candle wedged into a candlestick already clogged with melted tallow, tired eyes straining against the dimness, devouring page after page of the book of magic Gaius had given him. Merlin still remembers the firmness of the leather binding resting in his lap, the dusty fragility of the parchment at his fingertips. Sometimes, it had felt like the only thing worth clinging to in that darkened age of uncertainty and terror.

  Winter nights are quiet. Velvet-laden. A source of comfort and completely, blissfully free. It is during these kinds of nights that Merlin is able to turn his mind to things that the light of day will never see, suspended in this liminal space between moments, nothing but the moon to bear witness to whatever he should wish to do, or say, or think.

  Winter nights are times of confession. Of promises whispered beneath body-warmed bedclothes, pressed into heated skin, traced into fluttering heartbeats by gentle fingers. Cocooned in darkness, winter nights are for lovers and lovers alone, shielded from the prying eyes of those who would tear them apart. Hot breath, sweat-slicked skin, fingers tangled in hair, soft, breathless cries – they mingle, creating a miasma, honeyed and heavy, like the buzzing sweetness of a lavender patch in summer. The lovers are separate, liberated, pressed together beneath the blankets, freed from the rigid silence of convention and let loose into the pulsing night.

  Merlin has not taken a lover in a long time. There were others, after Camelot, but few, and they were all short-lived. Didn’t feel right, after what he had had before. So winter nights are now spent alone, with only the shadowy impressions of a past love to keep him company, carried up and away by the roiling smoke of the fire. But of course they never truly leave. There’s a special place in Merlin’s heart reserved for those memories, limned in gold and thrumming quietly at the back of his skull, waiting patiently to be taken out and examined once again, like the well-worn pages of a much-loved book.

  There’s a soft sound from outside, loose snow falling from the drainage pipes. It shivers against the window, gently bringing him back to the present. No time for remembrance, it tells him. Only action. That’s one of the lessons he’s learned over the years, and one that he continues to hold close to his heart, long after the life he once led had faded into the past, people he had known and loved becoming figures of legend, streets he craves to walk once again reduced to ruins, lost to the mists of time.

  Only one remains. A staunch, solemn reminder of times gone by, perched atop a grassy hill in the centre of a dry, equally grassy depression in the earth. A place that had once been the emblem of Merlin’s hurt, his rage, his grief, but over time has come to embody everything he stands for, and the only thing worth hoping for.

  Merlin has been visiting Avalon annually for as long as he can remember, and yet it has never lost its indescribable power to make him feel terrifyingly young. Somehow, whenever he comes in sight of that strange, ancient place, ruined tower like a broken tooth against the misty backdrop of the plain that once contained the great lake, he feels like little more than a boy, bitter and broken. Magic infuses that place in a way that Merlin misses, in a way that used to be the norm, but has been slowly forgotten by the rest of the world.

  But not Avalon.

  Avalon’s memory is ageless, unbounded, and it retains a little of that lost world that Merlin has, over the years, learned to live without. Visiting that place is like opening himself to his worst nightmares once again, and yet equally, feels a little like coming home.

  One day, he will visit that place and everything that he has endured, the long, lonely winter nights spent just like this one, huddled in front of a fire in a silent house, will be worth it. One day, he will cross that godawful main road, step onto the grass and start to walk, and _he_ will be there, waiting for him beneath that tower. And Merlin knows, deep down in the very core of himself, that at that moment, the world will fall into place once more.

  He looks out the window, at the steady snowfall piling upon the sill, bringing with it that specific, blanketed kind of quiet that is unique to snowy nights, and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

  He lets it out, slowly, and after a moment, he smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me a comment/kudos if you enjoyed it! Constructive criticism is also greatly appreciated, although I haven't written fanfiction in a helluva long time so please be gentle <3


End file.
